when the sand fills,
and the hands of time
caresses you into submission,
freedom feels a little too
overrated a concept.
we are puppets
dangling at the side
of a building, waiting to
be taken off the clothesline
or by the wind—
both of which we know
we'd gladly take just
to end the discussion.
i am a firm believer
in whispers.
small talk isn't
too small for me.
i hold my words too close
to my chest i barely breathe
without them.
so now, as my eyes fail me,
i wish time will be so
kind enough to tell me
how all of this ends.
i do not want to suffer
more than i already do—
and i do not need
another lesson on how to
survive in this
god-forsaken life.
yet everyone feels
compelled to
give me one anyway.
